I feel an adrenaline buzz this morning. We've been in our house two years and it's time to burn it down, blow it up, or move away. You know what I'm saying? Let's get the hell out of here.
I feel death crawling up my skirts and I'm ready to polka.
And, no, Mary Oliver, no matter how elegant the wording, it is not enough to go back to the earth and become a rosebush. It is not enough.
I am planning my escape. When Tom gets home, I'll lay it out for him and I'll be marvelously convincing. And he won't have to do a thing. I'll take care of it. Collect your paintbrushes, Tom, I'm moving you out!
I wonder if his ears are ringing.